


Morton's Fork

by Quentanilien



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1865568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quentanilien/pseuds/Quentanilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in her life, Clarke acts without thinking. There is only Bellamy, fighting for his life, and her, desperate to save him.</p>
<p>Circumstances in the finale take a different turn, and it’s Clarke who throws herself into the fray to save Bellamy. Stuck outside of the dropship together, they run for their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morton's Fork

**Author's Note:**

> Morton's Fork is, in simplest terms, a decision between two equally unpleasant options, or two different chains of reasoning that lead to the same unpleasant conclusion. Basically everything that happens on The 100 is a Morton's Fork, and this story is no different.

Clarke’s whole body is shaking with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, but her hands stay steady on the syringe as she injects the coagulant Finn brought into Raven’s side. She’d learned that from her mother. _If you want to be a doctor, Clarke, no matter what you’re feeling, you have to keep your hands steady. No one will trust you if you look as terrified as they are._ The lessons have served her well on Earth; she suspects people listen to her because she projects fearlessness and confidence, even when she’s in a turmoil of anxiety on the inside.

“Jasper?” She raises her voice so he can hear her down in the engine room, surprising even herself with how calm she sounds. “Are you almost ready?”

“Working as fast as I can.” He sounds harried, and she feels a stab of pity for him. Always the backup plan, always picking up the slack when other people get injured, always being asked to do things beyond his area of expertise.

“You can do it, Jasper,” she says, like affirmation will help him work faster.

“I need an extra hand down here, make sure the splice is insulated well enough while I finish this. Two more minutes, tops.”

Clarke doesn’t know if they have two more minutes to spare, but her eyes meet Finn’s dark ones, and there’s not a second of hesitation in them. “I got it,” he says. Clarke hates the idea of him down there, right next to gallons of hydrazine while Jasper’s working on the ignition wires. She’s amazed she has so much worry to spare for one person, when she’d thought she maxed it all out on the other eighty people she’s also desperate to keep alive. Less than eighty now, probably, but she can’t think about that.

“Bring the pliers down with you,” Jasper hollers, and Finn reaches out to grab them before swinging himself down through the trapdoor.

Clarke pulls the empty syringe out of Raven’s side, darting a hand up to her neck to check for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. She’s hanging on. Clarke can only pray there will be a reason left for her to hang on after this is all through.

There’s no time for prayer or anything else, though, because Miller bursts through the doorway, panting and shouting, “Clarke! They’re taking down the gate!” Horse whinnies and a clanging crash punctuate his words. _There goes the gate._ Miller’s got a bloody hand clutched over his chest like he’s been shot, and he points with his other hand, gun dangling uselessly from it. “I’m closing that door!”

“Wait!” Clarke shoots to her feet, already making for the door. “We’ve still got people out there. Bellamy’s not back yet.” She brushes past Miller, shoving the parachute fabric out of her way as she starts down the ramp. A couple of grenades explode, sending Grounders flying, and Clarke tries not to flinch at the blast. She’s never imagined how loud a battle can be—explosions, gunshots, screams—so she raises her voice as loudly as she can to be heard above the din. “All right, Jasper did it, everybody get inside now!”

An arrow whizzes by, too close to her stomach for comfort, and Clarke dives for the ground as a few more fly over her head. She takes shelter behind a pile of supplies, peeking over them to see an archer near the gate about to let another arrow fly. Before he can, a gunshot from behind her drops him, and she whirls her head to the side to see Miller taking up position next to her. “I’m almost out of ammo,” he shouts in her ear.

Clarke runs her eyes over the camp desperately. Most of the gunners are still out there. She sees them fighting still, the ones that can stand, and she can’t just run into the dropship and shut the door on her living comrades, leaving them out here to be slaughtered. She can’t do it, but she must. _Just a few more seconds._ Though she knows all the faces, it’s Bellamy’s she’s searching for most desperately, wondering if she somehow missed him in the darkness and the chaos.

“Clarke!” Miller’s shouting urgently in her ear. _Just a few more seconds._ A huge Grounder runs through the broken gate, swinging his sword, and it’s Tristan. A shiver of terror runs down Clarke’s spine as he swings the sword wide and brings it slashing across a boy’s throat, then across another one’s chest. She can’t identify them from behind, but she knows they’re not Bellamy.

Miller clutches her arm, and she swats at him, thinking he’s trying to drag her back into the dropship. But he’s not; he knows who she’s waiting for. “There he is,” he says hoarsely, letting go of her arm and pointing to their left. Her heart leaps into her throat as her eyes land on his familiar shape, hesitating at the edge of the trees. “Bellamy,” she whispers. He doesn’t look injured, and it’s a miracle that he’s even there, alive and whole and _too far away_. She needs him next to her now; she needs him safe inside the dropship. “Bellamy, run!” Her voice is a ragged shout. She doesn’t know if he heard her, but he obeys instantly, grabbing a gun off the ground and taking off towards her, keeping an eye on Tristan as he does it. She hears Miller turn next to her, shooting in the opposite direction. Grounders must be coming from the other side, but she can’t tear her eyes away from Bellamy. Tristan’s spotted him, and Bellamy’s raising the gun, but it’s out of ammo because Tristan’s still advancing, undeterred, and Clarke tries to scream Bellamy’s name again but nothing’s escaping from her raw throat but air. Tristan swings the sword, and that’s it—Clarke’s going to see Bellamy’s blood staining it and him collapsing to the ground and Miller’s going to drag her screaming into the dropship—but none of that happens because Bellamy leaps backwards just in time. He goes to swing the gun, but Tristan punches him in the face, knocking him off balance, then grabs him and knees him hard in the stomach. Bellamy Blake, always so strong, always so confident, suddenly looks broken and small next to the huge Grounder. He manages to bring the gun up to block a sword swing, but then he’s punched in the face again, and it’s clear he won’t be able to keep up the fight much longer. Clarke can’t watch it happen, but she can’t tear her eyes away. _He’s not going to make it._ “He’s killing him,” she says desperately.

Miller swings back in Bellamy’s direction. His gun clicks, but nothing comes out of it. “I’m out!” His voice is frantic.

Time slows down. Bellamy’s still fighting, still managing to keep the sword away from his body, but _barely_. Clarke’s eyes land on a dead boy on the other side of the supply pile, a gun lying next to his open fingers. She doesn’t have time to remember that his name is Orson, or that she once saw him give Charlotte half his rations. There is only Bellamy, fighting for his life, and her, crouching here watching helplessly. “Get in the dropship,” she yells at Miller. “Shut the door if I take too long!”

“Clarke! What are you d—”

For the first time in her life, Clarke acts without thinking. There is only Bellamy, fighting for his life, and her, launching herself over the supply pile, grabbing the gun, raising it, taking aim, hoping it’s still loaded. She’s so numb she doesn’t even feel the recoil; the only thing telling her she succeeded is Tristan’s howl as he lets go of Bellamy and stumbles backwards to the ground. She doesn’t know if she hit anything vital, only that she hit enough to slow him down. Bellamy’s on his knees, dazed, looking like he’s about to collapse next to Tristan. Clarke runs, somehow pushing air into and out of her lungs, even though she feels like she’ll never be able to breathe again. She grabs Bellamy’s arm before he can fall to the ground, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t even look up at her. If he’s losing consciousness, they’re both going to die right now.

Clarke shakes his arm with all her strength, not caring if she’s hurting him. His head snaps up finally, and his eyes land on her, and he looks like he’s just awoken from a dream. Clarke twists to look at the dropship. The last few gunmen are scrambling into it. Grounders are rushing past Clarke and Bellamy, ignoring them, assuming they’re as good as dead in their mad dash to get to the rest of the hundred. The door is closing, and Clarke lets out a breath, of panic or relief, she’s not sure. Miller listened to her, and he’s keeping the rest of them alive. Finn is in there, and Jasper and Raven, and probably fifty others, and that has to be enough.

_Jasper and Raven. Hydrazine._ “Barbeque,” she pants. Her brain snaps back into action again, and she wraps her hand more tightly around Bellamy’s bicep, dragging him behind her, away from the camp, as far away and as fast as they can get. “Faster, Bellamy,” she shouts hoarsely over her shoulder, and miraculously, he manages to keep up with her, though he’s stumbling and unsteady. Grounders are still running in the opposite direction, towards the dropship, not paying much attention to two solitary figures in the chaos. She’s so busy trying to do the math, gallons and velocity and acceleration and how far they need to run, that she almost misses the Grounder aiming an arrow at them. She lets go of Bellamy, dropping behind to shoot the Grounder. She feels the recoil this time, and she hits him in the arm, sending the arrow wide by several yards.

“Clarke!” The sound is a breathless gasp in her ear, but still unmistakably Bellamy. He’s clutching her arm now, dragging her behind him. They run and run, darting around trees, jumping over logs, trying not to stumble over the uneven forest floor. Sometimes she’s dragging him, sometimes he’s dragging her, both gasping and panting and wheezing, both pushing the other to run faster and farther. As the seconds stretch on, she grows more hopeful that they might survive, she and Bellamy, and less hopeful that Jasper is going to be able to pull it off. _What’s taking so long?_ The Grounders are shouting, and she can hear the clang of them climbing up the side of the dropship.

Suddenly, there’s a low rumble underneath the war cries. _That’s it, Jasper_. She’s relieved, and oddly calm. The hundred are going to live.

Bellamy’s clutching her hand in his now, and he veers suddenly to the right. She doesn’t question, just follows, her mind curiously blank once more. There is only Bellamy, fighting for their lives—one hand across his ribs and the other entwined tightly around her fingers, blood dripping out of his nose—and her, following him without question. The rumble grows louder and the ground falls away suddenly beneath her, and she’s tumbling into darkness and dirt behind Bellamy, who’s still clinging tightly to her hand.

She comes to a stop half on her stomach, half on top of Bellamy, and she realizes it's one of their unfinished tunnels. The entrance is camouflaged, which is why she didn't see it, but it doesn't extend any more than a dozen feet past that.

A sudden bright flash of light filters down into their shelter, accompanied by overwhelming heat that pushes away the cool, damp air surrounding them. Clarke barely has time to register Bellamy's bruised, desperate face and wonder if they're going to be flash-cooked in their shelter before he's flipped them over, pressing her to the dirt wall at the very back. His arms are wrapped around her protectively, like his body would be enough to shield her from the rocket fire if they're still in range of it. Her face is pressed into his neck and he smells like sweat and blood and something distinctly Bellamy underneath it all that comforts her because even if they die in the next two seconds he's here right now and he's alive and he's breathing and she never knew that a person could have survival instincts  _for_ another person, but she does now.

She realizes, belatedly, that her hands have come up, fingers tangling in his messy black hair like he’s going to evaporate from underneath them, and she’s murmuring nonsense words into his neck, her lips brushing against his skin at the movement, things like _okay_ and _alive_ and _here_. She feels him shudder underneath her fingers, and she doesn’t know why, but she’s distracted by how labored his breathing is. It’s a miracle if he got away from Tristan without some broken ribs, and she listens for the telltale sounds of a punctured lung, but hears none. He’s just bruised and battered and breathless then, she thinks. She hopes.

“So stupid, Clarke,” he chokes out against her hair. “Why’d you do that? Should be in the dropship.”

She keeps her face buried in his neck, because she agrees with him. It was stupid. It wasn’t the rational, logical thing to do, but how can she explain that she acted without her head for once? How can she explain why, in saving him, she’d left the hundred without both their leaders? “He was killing you,” she whispers against his skin. “I had to save you.” But did she save him? She saved him from a sword to the stomach, a slit throat, instant incineration. Maybe she just saved him so he can die in some other, horrible way, and her along with him. It won’t be death by incineration, though. It’s still uncomfortably hot in the tunnel, but she realizes if the rocket fire was going to follow them in, it would have already.

Bellamy’s fingers tighten around her waist like he wants to draw her closer to him, but it’s impossible, there’s not the slightest bit of empty space between him and her and the dirt wall behind her. “Can’t save everyone.” His voice is raw, still not recovered from Murphy’s attempt to hang him the day before. Was it really such a short time ago? It feels like a lifetime has passed in twenty-four hours.

If she had any space left inside of her for things like anger or resentment, she’d be feeling them at his words. He doesn’t need to remind her—she can picture all too well the people she hasn’t been able to save. “I can try,” she mumbles miserably. Sudden guilt overwhelms her then, and she adds, “But I didn’t. There were others outside the dropship still. That’s what I did. It was no one or you.” She still can’t look at him, burrowing her head under his chin like it will make her disappear. _Leaders do what they think is right_ , he’d said, and she’d replied, _I am_. But this time, she hadn’t. It was wrong to close the dropship door and it was wrong to leave it open and it was wrong to choose Bellamy at the expense of others and it was wrong to leave him to die. Everywhere she looked there was more death, and she’d never wanted to choose who lived and died, but she’d had to do it in the end.

“No,” he says roughly, and brings his hands up to her face, framing her cheeks and pulling her away from her hiding place so she has to look him in the eyes. “It was no one or you.” His voice is suddenly ragged and helpless. “You should be inside the dropship, Clarke. We’re not safe here.”

“They’re not safe there,” she breathes. No one is safe anywhere, anymore. A tear slips out of the corner of her eye, but Bellamy’s thumb blocks its path, and he wipes it away.

Their eyes meet in the dark, and Clarke can just barely make out his features by the flickering orange light filtering down through the entrance. She tries not to picture the camp, their home, on fire above them. Instead, she breathes in and out deeply, matching the pace to Bellamy’s breathing, but it’s opposite, and with every inhale she takes she’s breathing in his exhale, and he’s never felt so real and concrete in front of her than when she’s breathing in the very proof that he’s alive.

“It was a good plan, Clarke. You gave them their best chance,” Bellamy says earnestly.

She tries to smile and fails, the movement only succeeding in sending fresh tears on their wayward path. His fingers are still there to block them, but since she’s lying on her side, some of them escape on an angle towards her mouth. A second later she tastes salt, and a second after that she thinks of the ocean and how happy they all could have been there, and a second after that she can’t think of anything at all because Bellamy has closed the scant distance between them and stops the tears with his lips.

It’s not precisely a kiss because it’s somewhere between her cheek and the corner of her mouth, but his lips are warm and soft and tender, not at all how she ever would’ve thought they’d feel. Not that the thought had ever once crossed her mind, but Bellamy Blake is all hard edges and sharp movements, and Clarke thought there was nothing soft about him except his eyes from time to time. In this, once again, she was wrong. Her fingers tighten in his hair and her breath catches, but she doesn’t know why. If she turns her head the tiniest bit, she could find out if his lips would feel the same against her own as they do on her cheek. She feels a sudden, wild urge to do just that, and she doesn’t know what’s gotten into her so she stays still and waits to see what he’ll do.

Bellamy’s lips pull away and he leans his forehead down to rest against her temple. Clarke lets out the tiniest breath of relief. It’s the comfort of touch they both need right now, the shelter of arms and the anchor of hands and just breathing next to each other in the dark.

“Thank you,” Bellamy whispers hoarsely against her cheek. “For my life.”

Clarke thinks of the last time he told her _thank you_ , when she’d brushed it away. _I’m not doing it for you_. How far they’ve come from that moment to this. Although if she’s honest with herself, she didn’t do it entirely for him this time, either. It was partly for herself, and maybe that’s selfish, but she couldn’t bear to live in a world where she watched Bellamy die in front of her and did nothing. She couldn’t bear to live with herself, and how could she lead the remainder of the hundred like that, when every decision she had to make alone would just remind her of what she’d done to him? But she doesn’t know how to explain any of that to him, so she says nothing, just runs her fingers comfortingly through his hair.

Clarke doesn’t know how long they stay like that. They’re both sweaty and cramped and uncomfortable, but unwilling to move. She can still see the orange glow flickering outside, and they’re probably better off staying in here anyway until the fire goes out. She thinks she dozes off at one point, and maybe Bellamy does too, not because either of them feels relaxed in any way but because it’s been far too many hours since they’ve slept, and even a body used to hardship has a breaking point. Clarke tries to count the hours backwards. Yesterday was spent trying to leave, then preparing for the Grounder attack. The night before, running from Grounders and Reapers with Finn. The day before that, hunting and trying to save that little girl. It’s been a solid forty-eight hours since she slept, and the thought alone sends her dozing off once more.

She doesn’t sleep for long, because it’s still dark outside when she wakes, and the fire’s still burning. Bellamy’s shifted onto his back, one arm propping up his head and the other still wrapped around her waist. She realizes she’s turned his chest into a pillow in her sleep, and thrown an arm over his stomach like he’s a gigantic teddy bear. She feels his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and it’s more rapid than it should be, but steady. His chest moves up and down unevenly enough that she knows he’s awake. Under any other circumstances, she’d be awkwardly scrambling out of the position she’s found herself in, but she’s too numb and exhausted to feel embarrassment. She brings the hand resting on his stomach up to rub her half-open eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t be. You needed it.”

He needs it too, but Clarke’s afraid to ask if he slept at all. She has a feeling she knows what the answer would be. She tilts her head back to study his profile.

“Who made it into the dropship?” Bellamy’s voice is low and wary, and he directs the question at the dirt and roots above their heads.

“Finn,” Clarke begins, then flushes at how transparent she is. She rushes ahead, listing a dozen others she’d noted. “I know Miller made it in because he’s the one I told to shut the door. Jasper, obviously, and Raven.” She doesn’t know how much extra time the injection gave Raven, but if the fire doesn’t burn out soon and she doesn’t get back to her, she’ll die anyway. Not that Clarke knows how to surgically remove a bullet from someone’s spine, but she could at least _try_. For now, all she can do is hope. “At least twenty or thirty more, I’d guess, but I didn’t see who they all were.”

“That’s good, that’s more than I thought.” The words are positive but his tone is heartbreakingly defeated.

When she realizes the name she didn’t mention, Clarke goes cold all over. “Bellamy,” she breathes, “I’m sure Octavia—”

He doesn’t even flinch. “No, she didn’t. But she’s alive.”

Some of the tension goes out of Clarke’s muscles, and Bellamy must have felt it because he finally lowers his eyes from the ceiling to look at her. “Where?” Clarke asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “She saved my life out there, took out a Grounder with that stupid sword.” A shaky, rattly breath escapes his mouth that Clarke thinks was supposed to be a laugh. “Then she took an arrow to the leg, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t get both of us back. I let Lincoln take her to safety.”

Clarke can’t stop the corner of her lip curling up, because it’s the first time Bellamy’s called him by his name instead of _that Grounder_ , because now she knows Lincoln didn’t give his life to save Finn and her from the Reapers, because Octavia is alive out there somewhere. “Good,” she breathes in relief. “Lincoln will heal her, he’ll keep her safe.”

“I failed her,” Bellamy says brokenly, and Clarke hasn’t heard that tone since the night he killed Dax. She can’t imagine what a struggle it was for him to let her go, this big brother who’s more like a father, who’s been dedicating his life to keeping Octavia safe, handing that responsibility over to a stranger he’d once tortured. It must have been the hardest thing he’s ever done, saying goodbye and watching her disappear into the forest with an arrow in her leg.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says firmly, bringing a hand to his cheek so he can’t look away. “You did the right thing." He nods, but Clarke feels tears slipping down his cheek, and now it’s her turn to wipe them away.

Bellamy blinks and sniffs, and the moment is over. Clarke drops her hand. “So what’s the plan, Princess?” he asks, half-succeeding in recovering his usual briskness.

“The plan?” Clarke’s voice sounds weak in comparison.

“Come on, don’t try to tell me Clarke Griffin does anything without a plan.”

_If only you knew._ “Well, this is about as far as it extended,” she says, trying for a light tone. “So…I’m open to suggestions.”

This time, Bellamy manages something that could actually be called a chuckle. “Nice try, Princess, but I don’t think that’s how things work anymore. You’re the brains of this operation.”

Clarke makes a little noise of protest. “That’s not fair. So what are you, just the muscle?”

There’s the tired chuckle again. “Something like that.”

"They all probably think we're dead." She tries not to imagine Finn's face when he emerged from the engine room and saw the dropship door had closed without her in it. It's a painful image, and she pushes it away with thoughts of the hundred and what they'll do when they open the door to ashes. Or rather, what they won't do. It's not conceited to say they'll be lost without Bellamy and her. They might be a bunch of juvenile delinquents, but they're all she has and she's fiercely protective of them. She loves them, really. Every last one.

Clarke doesn't know exactly when those motherly instincts kicked in—for people her own age or a negligible number of years younger, no less—but that's exactly what they are. She'd never really planned on being an actual mother, but fate works in funny ways. She supposes it's fitting. Her dad called her an old soul from the time she was five years old. And Bellamy's basically been a father since he was the same age. He could only hide that behind  _whatever the hell we want_  for so long. The real Bellamy is this battle-worn man next to her, and he's looking to her, waiting for a plan.

"Okay," she says. "Okay, I've got a plan. We stay here until dawn. The fires won't burn out until then. They'll know not to open the door for hours. And when they do, we'll be there."

There's a short silence. "Gun's got two rounds left in it, Princess. And I'm not exactly in peak fighting condition."

Clarke shakes her head. "No one would've survived the blast."

"We did," Bellamy points out.

Clarke fights the doubt that erupts at his words. "We knew it was coming. We knew about the tunnels." His silence weighs heavy with disagreement. "You really think any of them would stick around after surviving that kind of conflagration?"

Bellamy's tone is dry. "Call me a pessimist."

Clarke releases a slow breath, brushing her hair out of her face. "You're a pessimist." She turns back to look at him. "We'll be careful. And Bellamy?" She waits for him to look at her. "We can't stay, not after this."

His reply is a discouraged mumble. He's got to be the most stubborn person she's ever met, once he sets his mind on something. The camp has been home, but there's nothing left for them here.

"It's the only option, Bellamy. If everyone can walk or be carried, we take what supplies are left and head for the coast." Clarke softens her tone a little. "It's where Lincoln will take Octavia."

"I know." He sounds less reluctant this time, but he follows it up by heaving a sigh. "Wait for dawn, huh?" His fingers tap against the barrel of the gun. "I'm not very good at waiting."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Bellamy snorts quietly. "Funny."

They're silent for several minutes, until Clarke says wearily, "Get some sleep, Bellamy."

"I can't." His voice is raw, catching on the words.

"Doctor's orders," Clarke answers sternly. She reaches across his torso and gently disentangles his fingers from the gun, bringing it to her side, then she pushes herself up to a sitting position against the dirt wall. "Come here."

When he doesn't move, she tugs at his arm persistently, until he finally shifts his shoulders and lays his head in her lap. She cards her fingers through his hair again, but this time it's less desperate and more soothing. His breath is unsteadier than she would like, so she presses a hand clinically against his ribs. He winces as she does it, which brings a frown to her face.

"Just bruised, Princess. I'd know if they were broken."

"Could be fractured." What she wouldn't give for an x-ray machine right about now. Everything seems to be in its proper place, as far as she can tell. She applies a little more pressure, and he jerks in her arms and swears under his breath. 

"Your bedside manner could use some work." His tone is surly enough to confirm the diagnosis she's leaning towards. While he's distracted, she leans forward to slip a hand up under his shirt and splay her palm across his ribs.

Bellamy's eyes fly open, but she can't make out their expression in the dim light. Clarke dips her head down, angling her ear above his mouth. "I need you to take several deep breaths for me," she instructs.

Bellamy obliges, and Clarke concentrates on listening for any abnormal sounds in his breathing and feeling for swelling under her hand. Nothing. "Is there any pain when you do that?"

Bellamy exhales a tiny chuckle. "A little. No more than anywhere else on my body, considering a couple of Grounders used me for a punching bag."

"Bellamy—"

His voice deepens, grows more serious. "I promise, Clarke."

"Good. Or else I'm prescribing a week of bed rest."

Clarke thinks her joke falls flat, but Bellamy decides to play along. "Sounds great, if you can find me a bed."

"Didn't I tell you? I've been hiding a feather mattress in my tent."

Bellamy gives an exaggerated groan. "Knew you were holding out on me."

Clarke chokes back a genuine laugh. "What are you going to do, requisition it for yourself?"

"No need for that. I know how to share."

He's not being suggestive, Clarke knows that, knows it's ridiculous to be embarrassed, knows that they might not survive the night, knows she has a million other things to worry about, but she flushes anyway, grateful for the dim lighting that hides it. All of her awareness suddenly narrows down to the point where her hand is touching his skin—it's warm, it's heated, it's burning through her fingers. His stomach muscles twitch under her palm and Clarke moves her hand away, her steady doctor's hand that suddenly doesn't feel so steady anymore, and the fabric of Bellamy's shirt falls back into place.

"Just bruised, as far as I can tell," she announces, clearing her throat. She resumes running her fingers through his hair, if only to give them something to do.

"Told you," he mumbles, his eyes already drifting shut.

Clarke watches him fall asleep for the first time, bends her head closer so she can make out his features, marvels at how different he looks when the lines of his mouth are relaxed and his forehead is smoothed out below the dark tangle of his curls. She wishes they hadn't been pushed to this point, caught up in a maelstrom of circumstances beyond their control. She wishes all of the hundred were still alive, that they could have made peace with the Grounders. She wishes so many things. But she saved his life tonight, and that, at least, is one thing she did right.

Clarke exhales softly and leans her head back against the side of the tunnel, moving her left hand down to rest on the gun.

She dreams of the Ark, its drab gray walls and artificial lighting. She dreams of her father, all bright smiles and strong arms spinning her until she's dizzy. She dreams of the airlock chamber, of getting floated, but instead of getting sucked out into the blackness of space, she lands on soft grass in a meadow of glowing blue flowers. She dreams of staring up at the deep darkness of the sky, uninterrupted by pinpricks of starlight. She dreams of 320 falling stars that aren't stars at all. They fall and fall, endlessly, and then they converge into a different shape, a huge shape that she knows is the Ark even though she’s never seen it from the outside. It plummets to Earth as well, but it doesn’t make contact, just keeps falling like it’s caught in time, like it’s waiting for her to do something.

Clarke startles awake, gasping and disoriented. The light filtering into the tunnel is the dull gray of early morning. She’s pressed up against something warm—Bellamy’s arm, she realizes—so she must have slid down the tunnel wall in her sleep, on her side, knees curled up and cheek resting heavily on his shoulder.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Bellamy’s voice is soft.

Clarke starts to draw her head away, then winces, hair catching on his jacket zipper. She angles her neck, trying to see the source of the entanglement while her fingers work to free it. “What’d I say?” Her voice is thick with sleep, but still wary.

“Something about the Ark.” It’s an answer, but it sounds more like a question, hanging heavy in the air between them.

Clarke tugs at her hair in helpless frustration. She’d crowded it out of her mind in the midst of everything else that was happening, but she knows what she saw. Bellamy had been in the woods at the time, or a foxhole. Maybe he didn’t know.

"They brought it down.” She gives her hair one last yank, then Bellamy’s fingers take over, untangling it from the zipper a few strands at a time. “The Ark. I saw it entering the atmosphere in the middle of the battle."

Bellamy's mouth gapes open. "Brought it down?" he asks blankly.

Clarke's thinking out loud again. "It had to be on purpose. Something's going on besides them running out of air. Communication going down, the Exodus ship crashing. I think maybe it decoupled too quickly, and that's why the parachutes didn't open, and there was some kind of power outage on the Ark. So the choice was suffocate eventually or try to bring the whole Ark down."

Bellamy’s finished freeing her hair, so she pulls her head back to see he’s studying her intently now, soaking in her words. "Is that—is that even survivable?"

"I don't know." Clarke tries to think like her dad would. Mass of the Ark, re-entry speed, impact speed. "There's a chance. A slim one. Better than the zero chance of surviving suffocation." Her voice tapers off, trying to imagine the desperation that would've led to such a landing attempt.

"So our people are either all dead or somewhere on the ground that we can't locate," Bellamy says grimly. It sounds strange to hear him call them _our people_ when a few weeks ago he was busy convincing the hundred everyone on the Ark was the enemy.

They sit in silence, letting the realization sink in that the Ark is no more. Clarke had known for over a year that its days were numbered, had known since being released from solitary that she'd never be able to return, but there was something comforting about knowing it was up there, orbiting the Earth just as it had for the last ninety-seven years. Now, even that small comfort is gone. She and Bellamy are just two small, insignificant humans in the utter vastness of the mysterious world. And the adults, their doctors and scientists and engineers, are dead or dying out in the forest somewhere.

She reaches for Bellamy's hand, clutches it in both of hers, because she needs something to anchor her in the midst of her troubled thoughts. He lets her, gives her a moment, but there are no comforting words, no hopeful surmises, because he's not Finn. Bellamy's thoughts are probably darker than her own at the moment.

"Time to go, Princess." His words are firm, but not ungentle.

Clarke swallows hard and nods. Suddenly, she's afraid again.

Bellamy grabs the gun and crawls toward the entrance, and she follows him, fingers sinking into the cool, damp earth beneath her. They both hesitate at the entrance, stopping to look at each other. She can see his face more clearly here, the dried blood around his nose and the deep purple bruising on his cheek and neck. "Stick close to me," he orders. "We spot any Grounders, we run, but no matter what,  _we don't get separated_."

Clarke nods. They've lost everything else; they can't lose each other too. They wouldn't survive.

Their eyes swivel back to the entrance. Bellamy takes a deep breath. Clarke's legs tense beneath her, ready to propel herself to her feet, leave the tunnel all in one motion before she can lose her nerve.

But Bellamy's hand clamps around her wrist before she can. "Clarke," he says, and his voice is deep and rough. Their eyes meet, and she sees determination and something else in his. "In case we die…" And she waits, waits for him to finish the thought, but he evidently didn't mean to complete it with words. His eyes drop to her lips and his other hand is suddenly warm on the back of her neck and he leans in and he's kissing her—kissing her breathless. It's strange and unexpected, but her free hand comes up and curls into his shirt. For the second time that night, she doesn't stop to think, just gives in to instincts, because there's something about Bellamy that does that to her. It's gentle and possessive at the same time, like a first and a last kiss all wrapped up into one. When his tongue brushes her bottom lip, it sends a spike of heat straight through her veins, and she suddenly needs  _more_ , needs it like she needs air to breathe, needs  _him_. A tiny groan escapes his throat, and maybe she said that out loud, but she doesn't care. She can feel her pulse beating wildly under his fingers, still wrapped around her wrist.

It’s Bellamy who pulls away first, but he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed. Clarke’s eyes are wide open now, but all she can see is a blur of dark eyelashes and freckles. He’s breathing heavily, chest moving up and down, and the analytical part of her brain that she can never quite shut off notes that it’s a good thing, that his ribs must not be too badly bruised if he can breathe that deeply.

Bellamy lets go of her wrist, brings his hand up to brush over her hair, once, twice, and then he releases her. Clarke can still feel the warmth he left behind, on her neck, her wrist, her forehead, her lips.

He turns away to fiddle with the gun for a second, then glances back up at her slowly, almost shyly. She’s reminded vividly of his expression when he’d asked her if she was feeling better after the fever. It’s all so unlike the Bellamy Blake she thought she knew that Clarke is sure her own expression is somewhere between shock and bewilderment.

His breathing sounds back to normal. Clarke wishes she could say the same of her pulse, but it’s still hammering away, quickened by a mix of adrenaline and fear and heightened senses. Bellamy adjusts his jacket and raises the gun a little. “You ready, Princess?” His eyes lock on hers.

Clarke sets her jaw and nods, muscles tensing up in preparation once more.

“Let’s go,” he says, and moves carefully out of the tunnel. Clarke follows directly behind him.

They stand back to back on the ground, twisting to take in their surroundings. Nothing stirs in the immediate vicinity. The air hangs heavy and gray with smoke. Clarke cranes her neck around to look at Bellamy. He jerks his head towards camp and they move forward, stepping as carefully and quietly as they can. When they come upon a dead Grounder, Clarke picks up his fallen sword, backing up to resume her position next to Bellamy as quickly as she can. He’s keeping the stock of the gun pressed tight to his shoulder, finger ready on the trigger. It’s strangely quiet in the forest, but Clarke hopes that means no one opened the dropship door yet.

A dozen yards farther on, they come upon several more dead Grounders, and a pile of dead Reapers. Bellamy keeps his gun trained on them warily, studying them one by one to make sure they’re dead, no doubt. Impatience gnaws at Clarke, and she starts drifting away from him and towards camp again, the sword clutched tightly in her hand. She only has a vague idea how to use a sword in theory, and no idea at all in practice, but she feels bolder now that she has a weapon.

“Clarke!” she hears Bellamy whisper fiercely behind her back, but she keeps moving, knowing he’ll catch up. She can see the top of the dropship between the tree trunks, and her breath quickens. Sword in front of her, carefully stepping over roots and rocks, over and down a small hill, around a thick cluster of evergreens. She spots a leafy bush at the base of a large pine tree, and her heart clenches at the familiar sight that’s greeted her outside the camp walls more times than she can count.

She starts to skirt around it. There’s a strange, reddish-orange smoke hovering around the dropship. It doesn’t look like any kind of smoke caused by burning rocket fuel. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she takes one more step and stops abruptly. The dropship door is open, everything around it burned to gray ash, and there are dozens of piles on the ground—not skeletons, although there are plenty of those too—and standing above them, figures with guns and gas masks and lasers. Over everything is the orange smoke, dissipating upwards towards the sun, and Clarke has forgotten how to breathe.

A hand clamps over her mouth and drags her backwards. She scrabbles at it with her own hands, trying to twist the sword around so she can stab at _something_ , but a familiar voice hisses in her ear, “It’s me,” and she lets Bellamy pull her into the bushes. He drops them both to the ground, wedging her body half under his like he thinks she’s going to make a run for it.

They lay there, frozen and silent for several long seconds while they wait to see if someone spotted them. Bellamy finally drops his hand from her mouth and reaches for the gun again, sliding it off his shoulder and into position slowly so the leaves around them don’t rustle. She can feel the tension in every bit of him that’s pressed up against her, and her head is bracketed awkwardly under his left arm, so she has to angle it to the side so he can aim the gun. Still, she has a mostly unobstructed view of what’s happening in camp. The piles on the ground are the hundred, she realizes, and they’re unconscious, no doubt from the orange gas. The masked figures aren’t shooting anyone—they’re picking them up, depositing them on stretchers. Clarke stares at them, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of what’s happening in front of her.

“Mountain men,” Bellamy says, low in her ear. “I saw a drawing in Lincoln’s book.”

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle, and suddenly everything snaps into place in Clarke’s brain. Gas masks, guns, technology, mountain men. The Grounders didn’t spear Jasper for invading _their_ territory that first day on the ground. It was to keep the hundred away from these people, whoever they are. “Mount Weather,” she breathes.

“What?” Bellamy’s voice is soft but sharp.

The words fall out of Clarke’s mouth in a whispered tumble. “That emergency compound we couldn’t get to. They’re from there, they have to be.”

Her eyes land on one of the piles that looks different, not covered in a worn, Ark-issued jacket but camouflage and fur. Anya? She had to have been in the dropship somehow to survive, but Clarke can’t imagine how or why. She has no more time to think of that, though, because one of the mountain men is picking up the person lying next to Anya, and there’s no mistaking that floppy brown hair. Clarke’s fingers twitch on the sword handle, now lying on the ground in front of her face, and she gasps out, “Finn.”

Bellamy shifts above her, leveraging a little more of his weight to hold her down. He obviously thinks she’s going to do something stupid, maybe even more so now that she’s spotted Finn. Something like dashing out there to pull him away from the gas-masked figure currently maneuvering him onto a stretcher. And she would be doing that, if she knew it would do an ounce of good other than landing her unconscious on the stretcher next to him.

So they just lay there watching. Bellamy is tense above her, keeping the gun trained in front of him, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of them for a second. Clarke watches too, a steady and helpless anger building up inside of her. She has her sword in a white-knuckled grip and she feels a tear running down her cheek. She can’t do this. She can’t stay here and watch everyone be taken away from her again. She can’t try to stop it, because they’ll still get taken away, and her with them. Maybe it would be better that way, but she can’t leave Bellamy alone. The hundred are their responsibility, and they’ve failed.

“We can’t help them,” she whispers, hoarse and angry and despairing.

Bellamy sets the gun down and wraps his hand around hers on the sword. His breath is warm in her hair when he whispers back, “We can, and we will.”

  

**Author's Note:**

> I must give credit for the idea for the title/theme to a picture one of The 100 writers [tweeted](https://twitter.com/DrLawyercop/status/480031492072947713) and the song "Morton's Fork" by Typhoon. Listen to it and tell me it doesn't describe Bellamy and Clarke in the finale perfectly. Their entire "White Lighter" album is basically my Bellarke soundtrack.
> 
> I'm labeling this a one-shot for now, but I'm open to adding to it later if inspiration strikes me.


End file.
